Solitude
by Musica Diabolos
Summary: On the Head of the Pin, The Rapture, When the Levee Breaks. All he wants is to save his brother...and there are times when you have to cross lines, blur the difference between right and wrong, and hope that you won't end up alone in the end.
1. Addiction

Here it is at last, my long-awaited (by me, at least) Sam one-shot…I'm putting this as a missing scene to OTHOAP, but the psychological journey goes beyond that episode. It's fairly dark (for me, at least), but it's something I've been working on for a _long_ time. A bit of a writing experiment. So, hope you guys enjoy it!

**EDIT:** I've decided to make this a three-shot (that's a word, right?) with the other chapters dedicated to two other episodes, from both points of view.

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, I just like to have fun with it…

Rated for quite a bit of language and overall…darkness. Implied Hurt!Dean. Generally unhinged! and Dark!Sam. Written before The Rapture aired, spoilers for nearly everything before that.

**

* * *

Addiction**

He lowers his hand and there is fire, everywhere, inside the demon and all around him - he can see it, behind those dead, white eyes - and within Sam, as well. But the fire doesn't burn him, it…_fills_ him up, he can feel it in his veins, hears a rushing sound in his ears. The demon is dead.

He hadn't been sure, hadn't been certain until the moment Alistair challenged him. But the moment the words were spoken, he knew it was true: _Now I can kill_. The power, like a monstrous beast, bent to his will and did his bidding, his palm flat in commandment.

Castiel is watching him, he knows, but Sam feels nothing. Nothing can reach him, he _is_ the fire…his pulse races, and he hears a ringing in his ears. He opens his eyes, looks at the angel. Sees fear, understands it, speculates, wonders…wonders if the angel will try anything. Then wonders, deep inside himself, if the fire is powerful enough to smite the angel as well. There are no limits, nothing to quench the unmistakable yearning, the _need_…

_Dean._

The desire disappears as if jerked from his mind by an unseen hand, or shed like a second skin. He feels the shock run through him like a physical pain, and he turns around to his brother as if doused with frozen water. Castiel is still watching him, he knows.

"Help me," he says, breathing heavily for the first time. His hands are trembling, the adrenaline leaving his system (among other things, perhaps), and he crouches beside Dean.

He has known for a while that his brother is a broken shell, a shadow compared to what he's been before(and will be again? Please?), and now he's as motionless as a corpse. But Sam will not weep, knows that his brother must be still alive, or else wouldn't he have felt something? (Wouldn't he?) No, there it is, a pulse fluttering like a trapped bird beneath two of his fingers.

And so, and so…he gathers his strength (and something else, perhaps?) and gathers his brother's body and gathers himself to his feet. He won't look at Castiel, can't bear his gaze right now (at least Dean's eyes are closed), but wonders how long the angel will remain now that his masterful plan has gone awry. Sam turns away, his brother slung across his back, but he isn't heavy – Dean is never heavy.

He never looks back, walks with Dean to the Impala and lays him gently in the back seat, because his brother looks more like a broken toy than anything (a seriously _fucked up_ toy), but he's still alive and that means that it's _okay_, that Sam did the _right thing_. That makes everything alright, the burning and the desire, the blood, the killing, Castiel's eyes upon him.

He gets in the car, looks briefly in the rear-view mirror out of reflex, and his heart jumps into his throat. He chokes, looks again…no. His eyes are hazel; they're normal, that makes everything _alright_. Sam swallows hard, wonders again where Castiel is. He knows he has to hurry, Dean needs the hospital, but at the same time the empty silence gives him the sensation of floating. As if he were in limbo, as if they were both dead (_what's dead should stay dead_) and he's just going through the motions, acting for the sake of acting. When has acting ever done him any good, after all?

_Dean._

Sam rubs his eyes, trying to achieve clarity (He saved Dean. He _acted_.) The engine rumbles beneath him, a familiar sound, and AC/DC comes on automatically in the middle of the song. He has to turn it off, his head is starting to ache and the lyrics just get to him like nothing else right now.

_Nobody's gonna slow me down…on my way to the promised land…going down, all the way down…_

No, Sam can't take it.

And Dean hasn't moved, he hasn't moved – because he fucking _is_ a broken toy, a – a marionette whose strings have been cut. And Sam wants to tie those strings back together, but he can't find a way (Dean won't let him.) The knots slip past his fingers; he's forced to relinquish control, relinquish memories of the past that makes his gut ache.

Sam passes the long (too long) drive in silent, cold lucidity, trying to keep his thoughts at bay, the ones that are always there whenever he's alone. He can't stand the solitude, ever since Dean's death, even if it forces him into awkward silences with his brother or the shit he gets up to with Ruby in the dark. He _wants _to be alone, but _needs _to have someone there…Sam can't let his mind wander, can't go back to the place he was forced to inhabit in his mind for those four excruciating months. There's very few safe places left in his thoughts.

He's told Dean what happened to him (mostly), but avoids the touchy-feely crap because there's too much…he knows Dean (Sam) can't deal. Because nothing could ever compare to Hell…because for the same reasons Dean doesn't expect Sam to understand those forty years, Sam knows Dean couldn't understand the four months. Knows that what he lived through wasn't worse, wasn't better, just…different.

Sam wasn't ripped apart by hellhounds, but he was forced to watch helplessly as they tore into his brother. He didn't have to crawl out of his own grave, but he had to dig one for the only person he was living for. He wasn't tortured for decades, but being trapped alone with his thoughts was torture enough, for the four months as well as the six given to him by the Trickster. Dean has nothing to be ashamed of, because Sam…he broke easily.

But now Dean accepts the angels because they're right in front of his nose, wonders if the Devil exists, believes in everything (_everything_) except his brother. Puts his trust in some jumped-up supernatural dicks dressed in human flesh (angels, yes, they're _angels_), doesn't trust that whatever Sam does could be the right thing, even if it _ends_ this nightmare (ends Lilith). Because he's _scared_.

_If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you._

Because, maybe, he has reason to be. But that doesn't make it any easier.

* * *

Now Sam is waiting outside the room, while doctors stitch up his brother and stick tubes down his throat and up his nose and into his ears and whatever the hell else. He's so tired of this, because his brother doesn't deserve to be hurt so badly, _all the time_. He understands (detests) why they can't escape into the plain old apple pie life he _knows_ Dean craves, despite everything he might say. He can't bring up arguments Sam used at the age of eighteen – it's outdated, old news, utterly pointless.

It's funny how some of the things he used to believe so strongly seem that way now: silly, naïve, childish even. To think he had once banked on spending the rest of his life with a beautiful wife and a comfortable legal career. To think that all the terrible things he had seen could fade away into the background, nothing but a dream of the past, as if he had lived in two different worlds. To think that Sam had believed his brother was invincible, someone who would always be there through thick and thin (_beyond the veil of death_…)

To think he had once prayed to God and his angels for strength, for aid, for…redemption.

Now Dean's been to Hell and Sam is _so strong _(it scares him as well), and he's wondered more than once this year if it's possible to _kill_ an angel.

There are no more illusions. Illusions are too easy, too comfortable.

_Asking nothing, leave me be, taking everything in my stride, don't need reason, don't need rhyme…_

Fuck AC/DC.

Thoughts, memories shift across his mind like an endless tide, and he begins to feel dizzy, overwhelmed. He is almost oblivious to what is happening in front of his eyes, with everything blurring together in a steady stream of colour and movement. He barely reacts when one of the doctors taps him on the shoulder with a friendly smile.

His brother is stable and so Sam sits beside him in the white room on the colourless chair and looks at the starched sheets and Dean's wan face, lifeless and yet far too alive. He can't stop thinking how screwed up it all is, that Dean is lying here because the beings that Sam prayed for for years have finally arrived…and they aren't leaving any time soon.

It just never seems to end. Azazel's death, Dean's return from hell – they should have been _endings_, signs of a return to normality (whatever _that_ meant), but each one just brings new players and new problems into this cosmic…game. God, he wishes he could call it anything _but _that.

He should have known that his part would never be over – his mother's deal and the demon blood pumping through his (exhausted) veins make sure of that, no matter how much he prays. Even death itself can no longer be an escape for him, no matter how many times he contemplates how much easier it would be to quit fighting (He is just so tired…) As the tainted Boy King, Sam's fairly certain he has a one-way, non-redeemable ticket to take him straight to the pit (do not stop, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 _fucking dollars_.)

And so he has to make the best of things here on the mortal plane, try to end things before they became too dark and, well…end. A clear directive (end Lilith) is the only thing that can keep all his other thoughts at bay, keep him from drowning in it all…so his _obsession_ (as Dean calls it, never understanding anymore) truly is the only thing that keeps him going, keeps him _sane_. He has nothing else…because there's a chance that his post-hell brother wouldn't be able to do that anymore.

His brother…Dean's case should be so much different than his. Human his entire life, enjoying human vices and human emotions…he was dropped into this selfless, unrewarding (in the ways that truly mattered) existence by a fluke - or in other words, because of Sam - just like his father. Sam's college years should have been Dean's, the beautiful woman Sam had seen in the dream-world should have been Dean's. He should be allowed to grow old, to feel his strength and youth gradually fade from his body, to be surrounded by a loving family and friends…

He _should_ – well, really, both of them should – have this, not because of luck or divine favour or because they've fought _so damn hard_, but because they are essentially _human._ Humanity comes with choices, and mortality…and the choices that come with mortality. They're supposed to be the shades of grey in that same great cosmic game, the ones who can go either way in the end. No deals, no resurrection crap.

But for some reason beyond their control (he hates to call it destiny, that old cliché), the brothers are being pulled away from the middle ground, into the world of black and white. Sam is veering downwards into the darkness, Dean is being forcibly dragged into the light. Both against their will.

He can live, now, with them not being allowed to be normal. He can't live with them not being allowed to be _human._

Sam shifts anxiously in his chair, needing to move about and away from all this, from his own _mind_. He watches Dean, because he has no other choice, but it's painful. The simplest, most incompetent of mistakes has put him here. Even though the fault isn't Sam's, the familiar guilt that has haunted him for four years is wafting through his overloaded system.

A shift in colour in his peripherals makes him look up towards the doorway. Castiel is watching him; but as their eyes meet, the angel turns and walks away. Sam feels the anger of a few hours ago take over his thoughts once again; he rises from the chair and follows his brother's supposed saviour. If Dean's puppet strings have been cut, then there must be something (anything) the angels can do – if Sam can't tie them back together, than maybe they have some fucking supernatural _welder_. They owe it to Dean (to both of them, really.) Bring on the righteousness, he's been waiting.

"Sam…" the angel initiates the conversation, perhaps even knows what Sam is here for.

"Get in there and heal him." His hands are shaking again, with rage (or something else). "Miracle, now!"

It is ludicrous that he should be giving an order, but no one ever seems to answer his prayers…

"I can't." Castiel is stern, with…perhaps a tinge of regret? Can angels feel regret?

"You and Uriel put him in there, because you can't keep a simple devil's trap together!"

"I don't know what happened," Castiel responds sincerely. "That trap…" He looks away, won't meet Sam's gaze.

"It shouldn't have broken. I am sorry."

"This whole thing was pointless," Sam snaps, determined to get some sort of rise out of him because, God, it feels good to be able to blame someone other than himself. "You understand that? The demons aren't doing the hits. Someone else is killing your soldiers."

"Perhaps Alastair was lying."

Oh, please.

"No. He wasn't." Sam turns and walks back to his brother's room. Because as surely as he knew he could kill Alastair, he knows now that the demon had not been capable of falsehood in its final moments.

* * *

He sits again in the chair by Dean's bedside, then immediately gets up again and begins pacing. His argument with Castiel hasn't gotten rid of the restless energy within him; Sam feels jittery and out of sorts. He contemplates running a couple laps around the hospital (Dean isn't going anywhere, to be honest), then realizes that the jitters are actually making him feel slightly dizzy. He returns to his seat, rests his head on his hands, but the disorientation doesn't go away.

Sam huffs out a deep sigh and leans back, blinking rapidly as spots begin to appear in his vision (what the hell?). He hasn't had a premonition in over a year, suspects this is only a migraine or whatever, but now his hands are shaking again and the pain and vertigo are escalating.

It's only when the fluorescent lights start flickering in time with the pulsations behind his eyes that Sam recognizes that he needs to get out of here. He raises himself unsteadily to his feet, grabs the keys and heads quickly for the door. The floor nearly rises up to meet him (_you are not going to pass out in public, you are _not_ going to pass out in public_), but he manages to grab the doorframe just in time. Kneading his forehead with hard knuckles, Sam regains his balance and heads for the parking lot.

He isn't entirely sure what's happening but has a feeling it has something to do with killing Alistair and using Ruby's blood, which means he has to avoid the hospital at all costs. He needs to get this under control, knows he won't be able to see Dean while looking like a junkie in need of another fix…

No, this is different. He's not an _addict_, he just needed that boost of power after three weeks. It made all those new switches go on in his mind, he nee - no, he _wanted_ that, so he could save Dean. It was a choice, not a necessity.

That makes it alright. As long as he doesn't really _need_ it, that makes it alright.

He doesn't know how he makes it, but then Sam is in the car and driving somewhat erratically because his eyes keep blurring for some reason and _God his head hurts so bad_ but there isn't really anyone else on the road at this hour and he can see the motel sign and it's too bright and he feels sick to his stomach and he's shaking all over and he just wants to lie down…

Doesn't _need _to lie down, just wants to…that makes it alright.

The car is parked and then he's staggering out the door and he almost forgets to lock the Impala and Dean would kill him even though Dean looks like he's dead anyway but it doesn't matter so he locks it but then he can barely get the fucking key in the keyhole and why is everything spinning?

"Just stay still…" he mutters, probably louder than he intended cuz there's a woman walking her dog who turns and glares at him because he probably looks like he's wasted out of his mind and where the hell is Ruby because he needs – _wants_ her again, Sam can't deal with this by himself and somehow he's inside the room where so many hours ago he lost Dean into thin air and he's stumbling to the bathroom and he's emptying his guts out into the toilet even though it's been almost a day since he's eaten anyway so _what the hell?_

Time to pass out.

When Sam's got nothing left to give to the toilet he lays down on the floor of the bathroom because it's cold and for some reason he's too hot…his sweat is making the floor slippery but it's really not that hot so why is he so hot? Maybe the lights are too strong, there are too many and the amount of thermal energy they give out in comparison to luminescent energy is -

The migraine behind his eyes pulses angrily, as if telling him to stop thinking so much. He bites his lip to keep from screaming, because the dog lady would probably call the cops on him and their sirens are just _too loud_. The pressure in his head is building and he hears the light bulbs quivering and blinking just like in the hospital, wishes they wouldn't because that's just _not_ normal and there's too much light –

There is a crash and a tinkle of broken glass all around him, and this time he does cry out in shock; the room is immediately plunged into darkness.

A half-hearted giggle escapes his lips, and he claps a hand over his mouth. Hysterics, wonderful.

With impeccable timing, his cell phone starts to ring. He fumbles for it in the dark, eventually finding it in his back pocket, but his hands are still overcome by tremors and it takes him a few rings to flip it open and press it to his left ear.

"H'lo?"

"_Sam? Where the hell are you?"_

"Oh, hey B'bby…"

"_Your brother's awake but I think something's happened to 'im, he won't tell me what's wrong, just…where are you?"_

He pauses for a moment, the cogs in his brain working furiously.

"Um…'m on th'floor…"

"_What? Why aren't you at the hospital?"_

"Umm…fel'…fel' sick…" Sam groans, _so _tempted to just hang up and embrace sweet, sweet silence again…

"_You felt sick so you _left_ the hospital? Are you out of your friggin' mind? What's the matter with you, boy?"_

"Dunno…" His head is going to explode, but there are no more lights left…

"_Sam, you stay put, I'm comin' to get you."_

"N-no!" He tries to sound forceful and reasonable. "M'fine, you stay with Dean…'ll be there innabit…"

He hangs up, presses his face into the cold, slick tiles, and tries to think of nothing. He _needs_ to think of nothing, doesn't _want _to…or, wait, isn't it the other way around? It's so hard to concentrate…

* * *

When he wakes up again he's on his back and there is something cold pressed against his forehead. Sam doesn't open his eyes but shifts slightly, leaning into the comforting presence; he remembers being sick as a kid and someone sitting beside him, a hand on his forehead and so…

"Dean?" he mumbles.

But Dean is dead – no, not dead, just not here. Dean's hurt. Why is Dean here? He's not – not here.

He opens his eyes halfway, but it's dark and how is it dark but it doesn't really hurt so he opens them all the way and he sees her and it's been so, so long since he's seen her that her name is almost lost to him…

White. All white, and so beautiful.

"Jess?"

And it's not real, it can't be real, he's not _that_ far gone. But she's there, and she's smiling at him, and his heart jumps into his throat.

"Hey, Sam."

She always called him Sam, never Sammy, seemed to understand nicknames reserved for only one person. But Dean's not the only one who's called him Sammy lately, and when he thinks of _her_ his stomach jumps into his throat as well (how is there room in there?) and he has to lunge for the toilet again.

But when the episode is over she is still there, not a ghost, more insubstantial than anything, and a different sort of need fills him until his very bones ache.

"Jess…Jess, 'm so sorry…"

"Shhh…" she whispers, pulling him gently to his feet and leading him to the bed, half-carrying him despite his size (but it's not real so what does it matter?). "It's alright, Sam. It's all going to be alright."

Then he's half-sitting, half-lying on the bed and she's still smiling and then _Oh God Oh God_ she's lying down beside him and stroking his hands and kissing him so softly, so gently and he moans with longing and despair. He can't help but think of Ruby, how the sexual act has become a statement of his own self-loathing rather than an affirmation of life…to think he has forgotten tenderness, and a different kind of love…

"Shhh," she says again into his ear. "You'll feel better if you don't move, okay? We need to get your temperature down."

She puts a glass of water to his lips and where did it come from and this hallucination is _way_ too detailed but he drinks just as his eyes drink in her sweetness and her delicacy and her perfection and when did he ever deserve this….

Another uncontrollable giggle escapes him.

"I'm losing my mind…" he whispers.

She only smiles, doesn't deny it. But he doesn't care, he just doesn't care anymore. _She_ is his angel, he will never need the others. It's not like they're going to miss him.

_One word, and I will turn you to dust._

"'M sorry," he says again, unable to tear his eyes away in case she disappears. "Should've told you…everything…"

"Shhh, Sam…it doesn't matter…none of it matters. Just sleep…"

It hurts like hell, but he shakes his head, _nonono you can't leave me now…_he knows he's crying now, first time in a long time despite all the shit he's been through lately, and her hands are there again wiping the tears away.

"Do you remember," she whispers soothingly, "the first day we met?"

He bites his lip, finds it hard to focus, shakes his head again because he _wants _to and _needs_ to remember, but everything else is pressing in _DeanhellRubybloodLilithdemonsApocalypseDEATH_ and he can't, he just can't…

"Second period psychology class. I saw you standing by the door like some giant deer in headlights, so I told you to come sit with me."

Sam smiles.

"You – you said I looked like I was being hunted or something."

"And then you seemed even more freaked out." She toys with the ends of his hair, kisses his eyelids, his nose, his forehead. He tries to quell his shivering, and Jess pulls the blanket over them both.

"And then…" he sniffles, the tears still coming, hot and fast, uncontrolled. "Then you – you walked with me to my next class. All the way across campus. You talked about – about nothing…and everything."

"I made you laugh. You have such a nice laugh, Sam."

_OhGodOhGodOhGod_

"Why don't you laugh that way anymore?"

He knows it's not really her, some extension of his subconscious maybe? No point overthinking it. But that means he doesn't know the answer to the question he's asking himself.

"I've d-done some terrible things…"

"Sam, it doesn't - "

"Jess, I'm drinking demon blood. And I've killed…I've _lied_ so many times…"

"It doesn't matter." Soothing. But it does, oh it does…

"You c-can't say that, you c-can't…" He's shivering worse than ever, but his thoughts are lucid once more. He laughs darkly, murmurs into her ear. "Jess…I think I'm losing myself."

"No, Sam." Her eyes are wide, almost fearful. "You're still you. I can see it…these are your eyes, your hands - " She touches each in turn. "Your heart." She lays a hand on his quivering chest, Sam feels his pulse quicken, hears himself make some pitiful noise as if in denial.

"I know." Only the angels look at him as if he has changed on the outside, as well. "Jess, when I went to Stanford, I was trying to be a different person. But I was still me, all along…the same dreams, the same fears, the same…_voice_, inside me, that would tell me what was right and what was wrong…" He swallows hard, closes his eyes. "I was gonna ask you to marry me, Jess."

"I know," she whispers, and he looks at her and sees her eyes are tearful as well. "I found the ring in your sock drawer."

"But I left – I _left _you for just a little while and then you died…I was going to propose, but instead you b-burned…"

There's so much more that could be said, but their eyes meet and they acknowledge that nothing else needs to be said, everything is known. He makes that same pathetic sound, but keeps talking because he doesn't know how much longer she will be here and there's so much pain and why can't he fucking stop crying?

"But this – this _thing _– inside me…ever since Dean brought me back, since he made that damn deal…I can _feel _it Jess, I can feel it in my veins, I never could before. And whenever I feel angry, or – or - " There are no words to describe those four months alone.

"And the voice is gone, too, and I'm crossing lines I-I never would've crossed before, and I'm not scared of the blood anymore…and I know Dean can tell it's not really me now. But there's no way to get _me back._"

She's kissing him again, kissing the tears on his face. His own trembling lips respond, tracing a desperate path down her neck, but she's not real and he can't taste her sweetness on his mouth. He feels suddenly cold.

"You have to stop, Sam."

He knows.

"The blood…it's killing you."

"I have to stop Lilith." Sam has known for a while that any semblance of life he once had is over. All he can do now is make himself _useful_, exact his revenge. "I'm the only one who can."

"Sam, you're _sick_. Just talk to your brother…"

"No," he whispers. "No, he can't ever know. It's my burden to bear. Alone."

"He's going to find out eventually. Wouldn't it be better if he heard it from you?"

Dean will kill him. Or will he?

_You have to watch _out_ for me. And if I ever become something I'm not…_

A half-formed memory. _No, Sam. I would rather die. _And then…

"You're not alone." But he is, he is…

Sam hears her breath hitch, and Jess begins to cry in earnest now.

"You c-can't keep this up, Sam. I _love _you. I w-won't let you do it. You're breaking my heart."

"You're not real. You're just in my head."

"Does it matter?"

He shivers.

"Yes."

The temperature of the room drops, or is it all just his imagination? His shaking increases dramatically, and he realizes the room is shaking too. The chairs keel over onto the floor, the television falls off its stand with a loud crash. Jess reaches out to him.

"Sam…Sam, your eyes…"

Then, all at once, she is thrown back against the far wall. She cries out and struggles to no avail; her body begins to glide steadily upward, onto the ceiling above Sam's bed.

"Jess! Jess, no!"

"Sam," she sobs, "Sam, please…."

"No, no…I'm not doing it, I'm not…"  
"Please stop, you're hurting me!"

"Jess…"

She bursts into flames, screaming his name; Sam turns his face away, buries his head in the pillow and tries to block it all out. It's not real, any of it, it's not real _itsnotrealnotrealitsnotreal…_

* * *

He wakes up to silence. The sunlight streams through the window, reaching out to all corners of the motel room until Sam is finally forced to open his eyes. Everything is as it was before he left to save his brother.

His pillow is wet.

Sam realizes what caused him to wake when the frantic pounding on the door resumes. He groans, gets to his feet (he still feels dizzy) and makes his way over, turns the doorknob and opens in one smooth motion.

Bobby is standing there, his rugged features torn between fury and concern (an expression Dean has mastered over the years.)

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Hey, Bobby." He steps back, lets the older hunter in. "Um…I'd offer you a beer, but I think we're out…"

"You going to tell me what happened last night?"

He turns, looks his friend straight in the eyes. "I told you, I was sick. I-I had a migraine."

"What's wrong with your face?"

Sam blinks, scrubs one hand across his face, brushing away the wetness he finds there. He sniffles, squirming at the pathetic sound. "It's nothing. I...um…I slept a lot."

Concern has won the battle over Bobby's features.

"You sure you're okay, kid?"

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah, definitely. I need to get back to the hospital. Did Dean sleep at all?"

"They had to sedate him. Doctor said he might be outta there by tomorrow morning, though. I'll give you a lift, Sam; you look dead on your feet."

"Okay." He sticks the keys in his pocket anyway. "Listen, Bobby, I, uh, I gotta talk to the guy at the front desk. I'll meet you outside in two minutes."

"All right." Bobby turns and heads out, muttering under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like "damn idjits, can't take care o'themselves…"

Sam dials her number, leaves a brief but firm message. He's going to need more, he overdid it last night.

There's no point trying to deny it anymore. Because he wants _and_ needs to kill Lilith. He wants _and_ needs to save his brother. And despite everything that's said about revenge, Sam knows that he can only hold on to this world and all he has in it for so much longer. He has to face what has been coming for him all along (before he was even _born_), as well as what he has now created. There's no safe place for him to hide anymore; not behind his brother, not behind his faith, not even within his own mind.

There are no more illusions.

* * *

Lyrics: AC/DC, _Highway to Hell_


	2. Intervention

So, chapter two…the end of The Rapture, from Dean's point of view, showing the other side of the addiction, without Sam's justifications. Same language warnings apply, spoilers for ITGPSW, Death Takes a Holiday, OTHOAP, Jump the Shark, The Rapture, and a bit of WTLB.

Disclaimer: It's not mine, or else Sam would probably have never gotten over his emo side.

**

* * *

Intervention**

The utter horror that fills him as his little brother raises his head and turns to face him - face smeared in blood like some kind of carnivorous animal - feels like ice. The ice travels through his throat and lungs, settling at last into the pit of his stomach. There, he knows, it will remain, a constant reminder that he has failed, yet again.

_He should have seen this coming._

Dean can't help but stand there, frozen, mouth gaping like a fish gasping for oxygen while above and around him the water solidifies into a wintry prison. Realization washes over him…it all _makes sense_…Sam's rapid transition from dreamer to exorcist to badass demon killer, all the hiding and secrets, the strange remarks…

And for the first time in a long time, Dean understands what overwhelming terror is. Not _of_ his brother, never of him…but _for_ him, yes. Because the same – _creature_ – standing before him, blood dripping obscenely from its – _his­ _– jaws, is the little brother that he has rescued from two burning buildings. The little brother he tucked in at night, fed Spaghettios to, protected from schoolyard bullies, comforted in grief, and reassured about his terrible destiny. And now…everything shifts into place with painful clarity, as if a terrible curtain has been raised in his mind.

_Sammy, what have you done to yourself?_

The ice solidifies in his limbs, moves through his veins, stops his heart in its tracks.

_

* * *

One week earlier…_

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sam says, as they stand over another burning pyre. This time, his brother doesn't shed any tears, another reminder of how much he has changed.

"You take it any way you like," Dean replies tonelessly. He stares at the flames, then into them, and finally past them.

It hasn't really hit him before how much Sam has become like their dad. Or maybe it just took him too long to believe it because of how much they bashed skulls in what he liked to call the 'good old days.' Sam's stamina for obsession somehow became his own in Dean's mind, but he should have seen the other signs: the willingness to keep important details to himself, the hunt always being the priority, the single-mindedness when it came to revenge, his isolation and refusal for help.

His willingness to ruin another's innocence in favour of his 'protection' from what could only be seen as another world.

Dean has spent most of his life, discounting Hell, looking up to his father and attempting to fit himself perfectly into his shoes. Attempting to cast the same shadow, and earn the same respect. If Dean isn't like his father, then…who _is_ he like?

He has answered that question before.

On the other hand, Dean can totally still see John bashing skulls with his little brother, perhaps a little extra because of the whole demonic partnership thing with Ruby. Not to mention the use of his demon-given powers.

When did it all come to this? The parallels to the situation with Stanford are unmistakable, and once again Dean is mentally kicking himself for not seeing it sooner. This time it's _him _Sam is lying to, lying coming so smoothly and easily to him that it is frankly disturbing. The almost constant arguing is more than just brotherly banter, only this time Sam wants something far from a normal life. If he doesn't tread carefully, Dean knows, he just might live to see Sam walk out on him again.

And this is _really_ not the time for it it, not with Ruby lurking on the sidelines convincing his brother to do God-knows-what with his time. Worse, Sam completely trusts her.

When Adam's body, wrapped tight within its concealing shroud, is nothing but ash, Dean follows (There's another thing…._follows_? Since when?) his brother back to the car in silence. Sam still seems shaky from the blood loss, but Dean hopes he has patched him up well enough to avoid infection and therefore hospitals. Not so much because he's worried about getting on the FBI's radar again, but because Sam's slashed wrists look a little too…purposeful to be passed off as any kind of accident.

Because, of course, they _were_ purposeful. Just not the purpose of any kind of human being.

They drive.

For a while they don't speak or even look at each other. Dean wonders if Sam is just reeling from the loss of yet another family member, or if something else is the matter. He hasn't taken out his laptop to look for their next hunt, which is a typical distraction in this situation.

They're not even _pretending_ to be fine.

So, of course, Dean may as well ask.

"You feeling okay, Sam?"

His brother looks a bit pale, the occasional small shiver wracking his lanky frame. His fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose, a telltale sign.

"Yeah, um…" Sam pauses, and Dean can practically see the lie balanced like a cliff diver on his lips, but his brother surprises him. "Think I'm getting a migraine or something."

"You gonna hurl?"

Sam shakes his head, leans his head back against the seat with his eyes closed. Dean can see his hands shaking; Sam twists them together to still them.

"Well, let me know if you are. You know how I feel about puke on the upholstery."

They don't mention the blood on the upholstery from only a few hours earlier.

Dean keeps driving, listening as his brother's breathing gradually quickens while he pushes through the pain. Maybe Sam's arms are still bothering him. Maybe he should have asked…lately, he feels so out of sync with everything, when he used to practically be able to read his brother's mind.

"Um, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Pull over," Sam mutters weakly.

He decelerates smoothly, settles with barely a bump on the side of the road. Dean watches as his trembling sibling opens the door (somewhat less smoothly), mostly tumbles out of the car and starts retching horribly. He cringes.

"Jesus, Sammy," he says, and he is out of the Impala and half-running to his brother before he stops, feeling awkward. The same feeling of uncertainty crowds his senses, and Dean realizes he doesn't know what to do for his brother. He settles for crouching softly beside him when Sam seems to be finished with turning himself inside out.

"Sam? You okay? Is it your head?"

Sam takes a breath. "Yeah…I dunno, maybe…it's not that bad."

"Your arms?" Damn, he _knew_ they should have pinched some painkillers and antibiotics from Adam's house.

"'M not sure…"

"I'll check them when we find a place to crash. Can you get up?"

"Yeah…"

His brother gets shakily to his feet before Dean can extend a hand to help. He watches Sam stagger back to the car, then he slides back behind the wheel. Dean eyes the sweat beading on his brother's forehead, reaches behind him for his duffel bag and pulls out the aspirin. He shakes the bottle at Sam, who glances at him blearily.

"No, 's okay…I'm fine."

"Sam, I don't have time to baby you right now," Dean says impatiently, thrusting the bottle at him. "I can see from here you've got a fever, so take the damn pills and I'll find us a motel so you can rest."

His brother complies and Dean steps on the gas.

They have to stop twice more so Sam can throw up. Dean is beginning to feel desperate when he finally spots a side road leading to a somewhat dilapidated inn. He pulls up to the main building, checks them in, and drags his giant and semi-conscious sibling into the room. He deposits him unceremoniously on the far bed and drags off a few of the kid's ridiculous number of shirts.

"Dean…s'fine…"

"Shut up, Sam."

The arms are clean, neatly stitched and bandaged, no different from several hours before. Huh. The hole in his side looks fine as well. Dean bites his lip.

"Damn it, what's wrong with you, Sam?"

His brother blinks slowly at him, his eyes glassy.

"Maybe s'just the flu, Dean."

"The flu?" He runs a hand through his cropped hair. Maybe he's overreacting, maybe it's just a bug. After all, those ghouls can't have had clean hands when they were digging around inside his brother. But he hasn't heard so much as a sniffle from Sam all day.

His brother groans and shivers, and Dean decides to treat the symptoms, even if he doesn't know their cause. He goes to fetch a cold cloth from the bathroom.

"There's a fire, Dean…"

"I'll be right back."

"Don't want her to burn…no…s'not me, I di'n't do it…"

Soon Sam is under the covers, sleeping fitfully, but the fever appears to be under control. Dean sighs, relaxes on his own bed. If it really is the flu, they'll probably have to hole up here for a couple of days while Sam sleeps it off. He'll need to find a bar, make some cash so they can get food…

He wakes up an hour later, glancing sideways in time to see Sam entering the bathroom with something clutched in his hand. He nearly gets to his feet to help him, but he hears the door shut and the lock click. That's a little unusual…Sam is typically clingy to the point of annoying when he's sick.

Dean hears the unmistakable sound of his brother retching again, and winces. There can't possibly be anything left to bring up.

"More like flu on steroids," he mutters, shuffling over to the bathroom and knocking softly.

"Sam? You good?"

The response is surprisingly strong and lucid.

"Yeah, Dean. Go back to sleep."

He pauses, uncertain.

"You wake me if you need anything…"

"Just go back to bed. I'll be fine."

Somewhat disconcerted, he complies.

He wakes up again with the sunlight streaming through the dusty windows, and Sam shaking him roughly.

"Dean, time to get up."

He mutters and stretches, throws off the covers grumpily. Then he looks at his brother.

"Sam? How you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Dean. Let's hit the road."

And his brother _does_ look fine. Better than fine, actually, to the point of being disconcertingly fine. Sam's colour is normal, his movements are brisk and efficient. There is no evidence that, just a few hours ago, he was unwillingly sacrificing his insides to the local porcelain god.

Noticing Dean's stare, Sam shrugs and smiles slightly.

"Guess it was just one of those 12-hour bugs, you know?"

"Yeah. Right."

Sam drives, but mostly because Dean is watching his brother more often than the road.

_

* * *

Present…_

Sam's eyes meet Dean's, dark and terrifying; his expression is unreadable. Nevertheless, there is a hint of hesitancy in his little brother for the first time. Dean isn't sure which one them breaks eye contact first, which one isn't strong enough to maintain it. But Sam turns back to the writhing, whimpering demon that is his prey, raises the knife above his head and brings it down with terrible power.

Then he stands, turns, raises one hand.

Dean recoils backward from his brother, surprising even himself. His frozen heart is beating fast, persistent, as if trying to break out of his chest, and he realizes that, for the first time, Dean _is_ afraid of Sam. There is horror, yes, for what his brother is facing, but now a tinge of his own fear has crept in.

It's the very worst thing he has ever felt.

But Sam's eyes are not on him, and so Dean, with Castiel beside him, turn to see the demon possessing Amelia stop in its tracks. He has never been so close to this display of raw power, and for a minute the horror is sidetracked by fascination as the black smoke pours steadily out of the woman's mouth and disappears, smouldering, into the floor, as if pulled by an invisible hand. Which is, of course, Sam's.

He looks back at his brother, now (he can't help himself), and sees the same unreadable expression. No trace of pain, or struggle, which Dean has seen many times before with Sam's abilities. But perhaps – his heartbeat is faster and louder than ever, and he wonders if Sam can hear it – a hint of enjoyment? Acceptance of this power. A certain…relishing of his own dark strength. Sam is in the shadows, and so Dean is unable to see into the depths of his eyes, but he knows that what he truly fears is what he might perceive there.

Once more.

_

* * *

Several months earlier…_

He sits alone, now, on that park bench, pondering what Castiel said. He's been labelling all the angels as dicks with wings lately (and Uriel certainly proves _that_ generalization), but his apparent "saviour" (despite all the screwed up shit he's been dumping on him lately) has surprised him.

Maybe…maybe he's found someone who cares as much about the people of this world as he does. Who (perhaps?) would stand in front of a town of strangers and save them from certain death. Who has doubts about the people "in charge" upstairs, and knows that just because there's angels flying around doesn't mean everything's going to be all fine and dandy.

It's something to think about.

These days it seems he has way too much to think about. Sam, for instance…Sam isn't talking much to him lately. Probably because Dean won't talk to him either, at least not about Hell. It's all come back to him full force, every last slice and scream, but there's no reason to show his brother how weak he was, not when he's trying so hard right now to be strong again.

Sam's different too, though…changed. He noticed things at once, little things, when he got out of the pit, as well as the obvious. And his brother isn't telling him much of anything about those four months. But it's Sam's broken promise tonight that is truly putting things in perspective for Dean.

He'd tried to treat it like one of Sam's visions, putting his brother to bed at the motel with some strong aspirin. But it wasn't so much _what_ Sam had done that was bothering him, as how it had affected him. How much strain could his mind put up with before…well, he didn't want to even think about that. But it had been hours after Samhain before Sam's nose had stopped bleeding.

That was when any vulnerability was halted in its tracks. Sam's shield was back up. He pushed Dean's hands away when he tried to help his brother into bed. Worst of all, he wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, as if he was just waiting for Dean to take another swing at him.

It _had _crossed his mind, but Sam looked like shit. No way could he survive a decent ass-kicking. Dean is just hoping the angels will see it that way, too.

He had come out to the park, tired of waiting for Sam to sleep off the night's activities. Mostly, he wants to get the hell out of Dodge and put the angels' stupid test behind him. Dean can't sit here alone any longer with his thoughts; he trudges back to the motel. Sam is sitting on the bed with his back to the door, fully dressed with both their duffels packed.

"Sam?"

His brother doesn't look up.

"How you feeling?"

"Fine," Sam mumbles. He doesn't move, though. Something's up.

"You gonna tell me what's going on in that freaky head of yours?"

There is no response. Sam runs a hand through his long hair, then finally stands and turns to face Dean.

"Let's hit the road," he mutters to the carpet. Dean frowns.

"I dunno, Sam, you look like you're in need of a major chick-flick moment here. What's up?"

"Just leave me alone, Dean," Sam tells the doorknob, moving to leave. Dean blocks his path.

"Is it the angels?" From the look on his brother's face as Castiel took his hand in both his own (like a doctor telling a terminally ill patient he was dying, honestly), and called him 'the boy with the demon blood,' Dean knew Sam's faith had taken a serious hit. Not to mention Uriel…

_Oh, shit_.

The angels hadn't wasted any time with the ass-kicking, after all.

"Sam, was Uriel here? Did he…" Dean isn't sure what Uriel would do exactly. His brother is still alive, obviously.

"Yeah, he was here," Sam informs the windowsill.

"What did he tell you?"

He kind of expects _that_ bit of silence. Dean takes a breath.

"Sam, I understand that you're…disappointed in how they are, but -"

"No, you don't!"

All of a sudden it's like a switch has been turned on, and Sam is angry.

"How could you ever understand, Dean? You never believed in anything! You -"

He stops, as if checking himself.

"Sam -"

"I just…" Sam closes his eyes, steadying his emotions. "I just wanted to do something _right_ for once."

"And saving people isn't right to you?" Dean whispers. Sam bites his lip.

"Apparently not to _them_."

Dean doesn't really understand but he feels he needs to clear something up before he loses Sam to his shield again, so…

"Sam, I don't blame you for what you did. I know Samhain knocked the knife out of your hand. You only did what you had to do to keep yourself alive, I can't blame you for that."

"_What I had to do_," Sam repeats, turning slowly to face Dean. "And was that enough? Did that make it right?"

Dean looks into his eyes for the first time and, all at once, sees a flash of yellow.

He could have imagined it back in Rock Ridge, but here and now it is all too real. It's enough to make him flinch back from his brother.

And of course, Sam sees.

"That's what I thought," he tells the mirror by the door. Sam pushes past him angrily.

"Sam," Dean says, desperate, "I'm just glad you're -"

The motel door slams shut before he can finish.

" – alright," he finishes lamely.

Fuck, what had that dickhead said to him?

_

* * *

Present…_

"I serve Heaven, I don't serve man. And I certainly don't serve you."

The angel's words should have come as a greater blow, but Dean is _ice_ right now, cold and hard and…absolutely alone. The curiosity he still feels, the questions that have been piling up, are a niggling sensation in the back of his mind. Castiel, Anna…none of them have given him any answers tonight.

But Sam, for once, _has_.

After Pamela's death, he told his brother he was tired. Tired of everything, but especially of losing friends. And Dean remembers his brother's words: _Well, get angry_. As if anger could solve anything, especially considering what he found out from Alistair later that day.

No, he still isn't angry. But the _ice_ is giving him strength enough, strength and an objective and a _purpose_. After months of frustration, fear, and a complete lack of direction, Dean can finally _do something_. He finally feels needed…and not just by the world, or the angels, but by Sam. He can fix _this_, he can save his brother.

His brother, whose lips are stained with another's blood.

Castiel's abandonment has set his heart beating again, pumping life and that sense of purpose through his veins like a cold fire. Is this what it feels like for Sam, with the taint of Azazel beneath his skin?

For the first time in a long time, he barks out orders. Sends Sam with Amelia and her traumatized daughter to find another car. _Send them home…they're safe._

For _now_. But hopefully, for longer.

He makes short work of the dead vessels with salt, gasoline and his trusty matches, grimacing at the grisly sight of the woman who became Sam's victim. _Victim_…it sounds so wrong…Sam's always been the victim, the one who needs to be protected.

Protected.

All at once, Dean knows what he has to do. It's the only way. With his newfound resolution, he finds his phone and redials.

"_Hello?"_

"Bobby, it's me," he says, the fires around him burning slowly down to ash. He pauses, but now there's no more waiting, no more hesitation. "It's demon blood. Sam's addicted to demon blood."

_

* * *

A few hours earlier…_

"You were right," Jimmy says quietly, regretfully. His wife and daughter are asleep in the car, safe, for now.

"Sorry we were," Dean replies, meaning it. It's taking some getting used to, treating the person who's been an aloof, self-righteous angel for as long as he's known him, as a human being. There's something in his eyes, though, and his voice – a fear, perhaps? He has reason to be scared. But Castiel was never scared, so it's a bit unnerving.

"But I'm telling you – I don't know _anything_," the former vessel continues, the pain visible on his features.

"I don't think they're inclined to believe you," Dean sighs. He's not really sure what to say to this man, whose burning handprint is still visible on his shoulder. He has questions, too…for instance, _why would anyone pray for this? Is this what you really wanted, instead of a normal life?_

He's finding it hard to focus, but Sam (as usual, nowadays) isn't.

"And even if they did, you're a vessel," his brother interjects. "They're still gonna want to know what makes you…tick."

"Which means vivisection. If they're feeling generous."

"I'm gonna tell you once again – you're putting your family in danger. You _have_ to come with us," Sam says firmly, his gaze dark and strong upon Jimmy's features. But Jimmy doesn't look back at him; his eyes are on Amelia and Claire, peacefully asleep.

For now.

"How long?" he asks tentatively. "And…don't give me that _cross that bridge when we get to it_ crap - "

"Don't you get it? Forever!" Sam's been on edge for hours, ever since he accidentally let him escape, and now the anger explodes out of him. Jimmy actually appears to shrink back, another disconcerting move that Castiel would never make. "Demons'll never stop. You can _never_ be with your family. So you either get as far away from them as possible, or you put a bullet in your head! And _that's_ how you keep your family safe."

He's not looking at Dean, but there are stories behind Sam's words and he's not sure he knows all of them…memories…of a drunken night in an old haunted inn, of open honesty, of pleading and refusals and _my head feels like it's on fire, okay?_

"But there's no getting out," Sam finishes harshly, "and there's no going home."

Dean can't help but stare.

"Well, don't sugar coat it, Sam." Who is this cold, bitter man living in his little brother's skin?

"I'm just telling the truth, Dean," Sam snaps. There is something…wild, unrestrained about him in that moment. "_Someone_ has to."

They coax Jimmy's family into a car of their own (Sam's unusually good at hotwiring them these days, which raises even more questions), and take off driving again. Jimmy is silent, staring straight ahead, and Sam mirrors him in the passenger seat. Something's…not quite right, though. He's sat beside his brother on these long drives practically ever day for the past few years, but never has Sam looked so…dare he say it…strung out? His fingers drum in quick rhythm against the leather, one knee bounces up and down. His eyes blink rapidly every few seconds. He gnaws on his lower lip occasionally.

His brother has every right to be nervous, or scared – hell, after what happened back at the house with Sam's powers, he wouldn't be surprised – but this is the _new_ Sam. The new Sam is like a friggin' robot, he doesn't seem to feel anything except the occasional angry outburst.

"Sam, you okay there?"

Sam looks at him, his eyes surprised, then his head whips back to face forwards.

"Yeah – yeah. I'm fine – fine."

He continues drumming, bouncing, blinking, and gnawing.

Huh.

Then, all at once, it's as if a curtain has parted in his brain, at least halfway. For the first time in months, the lights go on, and Dean realizes that maybe, just maybe, he might have figured out part of that _something_ that was going on with Sam. He isn't sure how, exactly, or what…but at the same time, an absolute certainty is stealing over him. He does know Sam, after all.

He needs to call Bobby. Dean glances at the dashboard and sees the fuel gauge at almost empty, just as he sees the road sign for a gas station up ahead. It seems with his inner burst of clarity things are finally lining up for him properly.

"We need to stop for a minute up here," he says to both his passengers, who give identical, noncommittal grunts.

Dean fills her up, goes inside to pay. Another stroke of luck; the line-up is unusually long for this time of night. Glancing at his brother, who isn't looking at him but still contemplating the window in front of him (drumming, bouncing, blinking, gnawing away), he dials the familiar number.

"_This better be friggin' good, boy."_

"Hey, Bobby."

"_Dean, do you know what time it is?"_

"Yeah, you betcha. But…I think we've got a major problem here."

"_Jesus, what now?_"

"It's Sam. I think he's…" he's reluctant to say it at all, because that would make it _real_. Because his baby brother… "Bobby, I think he's doing drugs or something."

"_What?! That doesn't sound like Sam…"_

"I know, man, but you should see him, he's restless, and erratic…like he's itching for another hit or something. And he's havin' these weird…mood swings, or whatever, I don't even know, but it's like friggin' roid rage or somethin'…"

"_You sure he's not hittin' the bottle again?"_

"Yeah, I mean, drinking's not exactly a secret between us. But it's affecting his powers too, now, I mean he couldn't even take on a possessed Joe the Plumber right now. Normally he's like…Chuck Norris the exorcist."

"_You think it could have somethin' to do with Ruby?"_

"I dunno, maybe?" Dean runs a hand through his cropped hair. Now that he thought of it… "Something's up with her too, Bobby, I haven't seen hide nor hair of her in weeks. Sam may think I'm just stupid, but I know when he's been out."

"_And now he's actin' like he's jonesing for another fix?"_

"Yeah, but I dunno what. I mean, it explains everything…the lying…"

"_So what're you gonna do? Bring him over here, stage some kind of…intervention?"_

Dean swallows hard. What if he's wrong?

_But I'm not. Not this time. I may not know everything, but I know my brother like no one else._

"Not right now. I'll call you back. I gotta talk to him, Bobby."

"_You gotta be careful, is what you gotta do. You better make damn sure you're right before you go accusin' him of anything. From what I can see, you two are rocky enough as it is."_

He sighs.

"I dunno, Bobby. Sam's not stupid, he won't tell me anything he doesn't want me to know."

"_I hate to say it since it's Sam, but if you're right…Dean, addicts are pretty much stupid by definition. Sooner or later he's gonna make a mistake."_

Dean is at the front of the line.

"I'll call you later, Bobby."

He pays for gas, walks back to the car. Jimmy is still staring straight ahead. Sam is staring at one of his one shaking hands, as if fascinated. Or maybe disturbed. Dean isn't sure. He opens the door; Sam immediately puts his hands together in his lap, twisting them as if to quell the trembling. The action seems vaguely familiar to him, part of the recent past…

They drive.

Jimmy eventually falls asleep, to Dean's relief (did Castiel ever let the poor guy sleep? No wonder he always looked sort of world-weary…), because it allows him to talk to his brother alone. There are so many words perched on the tip of his tongue, begging to be heard, begging for reaction, but in the end he makes do with something he knows. Something that Sam knows he saw.

"What the hell happened back there?" Dean asks, trying to keep his emotions at bay. The question sounds appropriately nonchalant.

"What?"

"You practically fainted, trying to gank a demon," he reminds him, trying to keep his tone light, a hint of teasing in his words.

Even though Sam doesn't respond to jokes anymore. _Was it a – refreshing – Coke?_

"Okay, I didn't _faint_. I got a little dizzy." Sam's embarrassment is in his voice, but it doesn't mask the edginess from before.

"Okay, you can call it whatever you want, point is, you used to be strong enough to kill _Alistair_. Now you can't even kill stunt demon three?"

"What do you want me to say about it, Dean?"

_Tell me what's wrong, Sam. Tell me what you're doing to yourself. I won't even be mad, I swear._

"Well, for starts, what's going on with your mojo? I mean, it's yo-yoing all over the place!" When Sam's annoyance seems to move past annoyance, he backtracks. "Look, I'm not trying to pick a fight here, but you're scaring me, man."

There it is, the full, emotional truth. And it's not the first time he's noticed the role-reversal, either. Time was, Sam would be begging him to open up; now that he has (so many friggin' times this year), it's Sam that won't let _him_ in. And he would laugh at the hypocrisy if it weren't so damn frustrating.

Maybe it's his own fault, even. The last time Sam truly let him know how he was feeling, he had crushed his brother's desperate hopes with his own harsh words: _If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you._

He should have known then how Sam's mind works. Dean's been wishing for a while now that he could take those words back, but they've built their own fucking Berlin Wall or something between him and Sam. It takes two of them to bring it down, and Sam's side has vacated the premises.

Dean's one small comfort (and it sounds ridiculous, even to him) is actually the secrets; they prove that, deep down, Sam still cares what his big brother thinks. That maybe…he's ashamed of what he's doing with Ruby (_What is it, Sam? Please just tell me…_), and that means that he's still human. He's still Sam.

His brother's words are quiet, reflective, and so surprising that Dean does a double take to make sure he didn't imagine them.

"I'm scaring myself."

It's the most honest thing he's said in months. And now Sam won't meet his eyes at all, and Dean wants to grab his biggest pair of pliers from the trunk and yank out his little brother's thoughts, one by one, to see if he can make sense of them. He needs _the truth_, he needs the answers; he can't save his brother if he doesn't know what he's fighting.

Dean is more scared, he believes, than Sam will ever be.

Then, of course, Sam's phone rings, and it all goes to shit.

_

* * *

Present…_

Dean takes Bobby's advice and decides to tread carefully. He doesn't want Sam to suspect, because he knows that his brother will run off to Ruby the minute it looks as if his brother has turned on him. He has to somehow convince Sam that he is still on his side (his _family's_ side), no matter how much he wants to kick his brother's ass right now.

No, that's not right. He is cold, hard, and purposeful; the ice is part of him. He will have to _act_, but without emotion, or he will succumb once more to everything that has haunted him since September. It doesn't matter if it's demon blood, it's still an addiction. Something very human. And he's going to get Sam through it, even if it means they _miss_ the friggin' Apocalypse.

Detachment is hard for him to keep up, and he knows Sam is watching him, expecting the explosion from way back when he first found out about the exorcisms. And Sam will be ready this time, as well, with all the defences his mind has come up with. But Dean is done with that…game.

"Alright, let's hear it." Sam must be impatient.

"What?" He asks innocently.

"Drop the bomb, man! You saw what I did." Even Sam can't pronounce it aloud. "Come on – stop the car, take a swing."

Have they gone so far that this is what Sam expects of him?

"I'm not gonna take a swing," Dean replies quietly.

"Then _scream_. Chew me out."

It's disturbing to him that Sam doesn't just _expect _a reaction; he _wants _one, too. He has changed so much from the boy who used to cower when his father yelled, who walked out the door rather than face his family any longer.

"I'm not mad, Sam," Dean says, his eyes on the road. And he isn't, not really; the emotion has gone, left the building, so to speak. He knows this has caught Sam off guard.

"Come on! You're not mad." Sam twists the words, makes them sound ludicrous.

"No," he replies simply.

"Right." His brother is determined to carry on anyways. "Look, at least let me explain myself -"

"Don't. I don't care." Once again, it's true. He has a purpose; he has a goal, no room for petty arguments. He has one answer, doesn't need the reasons behind it.

"You don't _care_?" Now Sam sounds genuinely surprised. Because, of course, Dean has always cared. He cared enough to spy on Sam at Stanford, to pretend Dad had been there at that Christmas long ago (like some Santa Claus), to find him and save him so many times.

To sell his soul.

"What do you want me to say, that I'm disappointed?" The truth is like a calm, cool rain from above, and he wonders why it was so hard before to speak it. "Yeah, I am. But mostly I'm just tired, man. I'm done. I am just – _done_."

Sam's phone rings for the second time that night, but this time Dean knows who is calling them. He carefully schools his features.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam says, picking up. He listens carefully; his brother's brow wrinkles in thought, but his eyes are empty of suspicion. "What's going on?"

Bobby's reply must have been snarky in some way; the corner of Sam's mouth twitches, as if in amusement. He hangs up.

"What'd he say?" Dean asks, concentrating on detachment.

"Wants us to come over to his place," Sam says, confusion evident on his face. "Something to do with the Apocalypse."

"Demon problem, maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe."

They drive.

After a while, Dean switches on Motorhead, even though it doesn't fit his current state of mind. Sam relaxes a bit, as if in relief at some return to "normal," but Dean can see the jitters starting up again in his hands. It's only been a few hours since his brother's last hit, and already he needs more.

The junkyard is dark and empty, but the lights are on in Bobby's house, so he must still be awake. Dean parks the Impala and the two of them get out; Bobby opens the door before they reach the porch. He's impressed by Bobby's performance; the older man looks somewhat agitated, but no more than he would be in any kind of situation to do with the Apocalypse. Sam smiles slightly in greeting, suspecting nothing.

"Come on downstairs," Bobby says, checking outside to make sure they weren't followed. "You boys okay?" They murmur their assent. It's a reflex.

They let Sam lead the way, and Dean tries not to equate it with a man on death row walking blindfolded to the noose. It's a trap, yes, but it's for his brother's own good.

Right?

Now isn't the time to back down. He follows close behind Bobby, tense as a coiled spring and prepared in case Sam bolts.

"Thanks for shaking a tail," Bobby continues conversationally, as if they're off to a bloody picnic in the panic room.

Sam reaches the door first, twists the handle and pulls it open,

"Now, go on inside, I wanna show you something," their old friend says, walking forwards to encourage Sam to do the same.

"Alright." His brother is so trusting of them, it hurts. Even after everything.

His brother walks to the middle of the panic room, unaware that they aren't following him. There's a cot set up in the middle of the room (Dean hopes to God it's long enough), and a pitcher of water set on a table.

"So, uh, what's the big demon problem?"

Sam turns around, looking so innocent standing there in the semi-darkness, so different from the creature with blood dripping from its jaws. Dean feels his throat close up, the ice leave his veins. He can't say it, he can't do it…

But Bobby is strong enough.

"_You_ are," he says firmly. "This is for your own good."

Before Sam can move a muscle, before he can even comprehend what the hell just happened, Dean's hands are on the heavy metal door along with Bobby's and they're pushing it shut.

The bolts slide sideways.

Sam walks slowly, uncertainly up to the door. Dean can see his eyes through the window slot, not yellow but hazel, and full of the sudden panic of betrayal.

"Guys?"

Bobby closes the window. Only his brother's voice remains.

"Guys! This isn't funny!" Sam's voice echoes around the iron room, permeates the door. "Guys! Hey! Guys!"

Bobby motions to him, and Dean follows him back up the stairs. He wonders how long he'll have to listen to Sam, but not see him.

"Dean! Let me out!"

The use of his name makes him pause. Bobby gives him a look, _Don't make me drag you, boy_, but Dean is transfixed. Sam knows he isn't cold enough to do this. Sam knows he's Dean's weak spot, and Dean has heard him demand so many things in his life…

"Let me out!"

_Dean, I want Lucky Charms. _

"I'm serious, Dean!"

_Tell me the truth about Dad. I _need_ to know._

"Let me out right now!"

_I'm gonna die, Sam, and you can't stop it._

_Watch me._

"I'm sorry, okay? Just open the door!"

_Take some responsibility for yourself, Dean! You had no right to keep this from me!_

"Open the door, Dean, or I swear to God…"

_I don't care what you say, you_ can't _be okay with this._

"LET ME OUT!"

_I'm not letting you go to Hell, Dean!_

"Come on," says Bobby gruffly, pushing him lightly up the stairs. "You can come back down and talk to him when he's calmed down some."

_

* * *

One month earlier…_

Castiel leaves him alone in the hospital room after a while, for which he is grateful. He needs to be alone, he needs to be blessedly ignorant again, he needs to be forty years younger…but mostly, Dean needs to sleep. A dreamless sleep…or if he has to dream, he wants to dream about something strictly tied to Earth.

For the first time in a while, Dean dreams about his mother.

_Angels are watching over you._

They never came to save her, but they came for _him_, even when he'd turned his back on them. It should have been the greatest blessing; it should have meant a new beginning. But, as it turns out, they hadn't come for him soon enough…or he hadn't waited long enough. You could see it either way; at the moment, Dean can only concentrate on the latter.

He wonders if he _could_ have held out longer. Just like Dad.

But no, _Dean is like his mother_. Weak.

The bile rises in his throat. No, not weak…but pretty damn close. Selfish, yes, because for Winchesters selfishness means sacrifice. He sacrificed his soul. And she sacrificed…Sam, it seems.

It's so fucking hard not to blame her. Sam would blame her, probably does blame her, but he never knew her. Dean understands that sometimes you just have to do what it takes, you have to blur the lines of right and wrong despite self-interest, or hypocrisy or whatever else Sam called it last year. Right and wrong are only perspectives, when it comes to saving the person you love. Supposed morals are made up by people who live in cozy rooms with dusty old books and write down rules about things they have never experienced.

Dean doesn't regret making the deal. He regrets not being able to keep his end of it, which was giving himself up so Sam could be safe. Now, he is back where he started, with no way of knowing if Sam can be safe. Not with the Apocalypse right around the corner, and both of them at the center of it.

But yes…he returns to his original thought. He _is_ like his mother. Neither of them wanted this life for Sam, even though her decision had such terrible repercussions. While Dean was in hell he had a lifetime of memories, a lifetime of dreams to distract from the pain…and most of them were about Sam. Hoping…hoping it was the _one thing_ he hadn't managed to screw up.

He can't say for certain if he was wrong or right. Hope wasn't enough down there, may not be enough up here on firm ground. Faith sure as h – definitely isn't enough.

There is movement in his peripherals and he sees Sam in the doorway, with Bobby behind him. Kid looks awful, pale and sweaty, dark circles under his eyes. He returns to his chair at Dean's bedside and Dean can't recall when or why he vacated it in the first place. Can't even bring himself to care.

"You look like crap, Sam," he says hoarsely.

"Yeah, well, right back at ya."

Haven't they had this conversation before, a lifetime ago? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. He questions Sam with his eyes, but his brother says nothing about where he has been, what he's been up to. And now, for the first time, Dean isn't curious. He himself is causing the end of the world, how could anything Sam is doing possibly be worse? It will probably be better for both of them, in the end, if they just…you know…don't ask, don't tell.

Even though they don't swing that way.

Oh, screw it. Sam is staring at him now, wondering why his big brother is crying. Again.

Dean's told him about being tortured in Hell for thirty years. He's told him about doing the torturing himself for ten. He's even told him about…enjoying it. Embracing his dark side, just like today, before the angels screwed up. And in the end, just as Dean had predicted, he wasn't the same when he came out of that room, and not just because of the 'beaten to a pulp' part.

He may as well add the damn cherry to the sundae. But he won't look at his brother, not directly. Dean's not entirely sure what he's more afraid of seeing, a flash of yellow or the horrified disappointment his next words are bound to cause.

"I broke the first seal, Sam," he whispers. "In Hell, when I broke. It was me."

His brother is still visible in his peripherals, and he sees Sam nod slightly, taking in the information as if it is nothing at all. As if it is merely a confirmation of what he already knows.

"They had you where they wanted you," Sam murmurs back.

There is an empty silence in which neither of them dares look at the other, and Dean doesn't dare to breathe, either. Then…

"I forgive you," Sam says quietly, but not so quietly that the words can be mistaken for anything else.

In another time, another place, it might have meant something. In fact, Dean tucks the words into a small place in the back of his mind, just in case he needs them someday. But right now, it's more than Sam's forgiveness he needs, it's…his own? The world's? He isn't sure.

So he refrains from telling Sam he doesn't give a shit. Instead, Dean rolls onto his side with his back to his brother, closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.

Maybe he does sleep, for a few minutes at least, but when he wakes up Sam is talking again. Maybe even to him. He keeps his eyes closed.

"I killed him. I killed Alistair. With my…you know. And my eyes…"

Dean tries not to tense up, or give any sign that he is listening.

"I wasn't going to tell you, but…fuck, I don't even think you can hear me, so whatever. Maybe your angel told you anyway. It's just…it's really hard for me to…"

A brief pause. The chair creaks. The machines beep. Dean remains motionless.

"I think I get it now, Dean, why you didn't want to tell me about Hell. Because there are some things that just…you know? I think I get it. And the things I'm doing with Ruby…"

There is a wet-sounding intake of breath. Is Sam crying? He doesn't believe it. Doesn't turn around to see.

Sam's voice drops, so that he can barely hear anything at all.

"I forgive you, Dean, because…because, someday, I hope that you can forgive me."

* * *

There, hope that was a good ending for the second part…I'll leave the rest for part three, not sure when it will be posted but hopefully before the end of the summer. I have another fic to write first. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


End file.
